My parents threw me out at sixteen after I lost my leg. Nineteen years later they wanted a million dollars for my sister — to hide why a 24 -year-old woman may never walk again.

PART 2

When I was sixteen they hired a photographer for a formal family portrait.

I was trying to cross the living room quietly, out of the way, and the tip of my crutch slipped on the polished floor.

A glass of red wine went over and across my mother’s white cashmere rug.

I hit the floor hard. My hip was black for a fortnight.

My father never asked whether I was hurt.

He went into the kitchen and came back carrying a black rubbish bag and pushed it against my chest.

He said: we are sick of carrying you.

He said: pack your things and get out.

For a second I thought he was just angry and it would pass, the way things did.

Then my mother walked over and opened the front door.

That was when I understood.

Celestine was fourteen. She was sitting on the sofa looking at her nails, and she did not look up.